


Abandon Ship

by CommanderTabbyCat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (in a way), (sort of), A few minor pop culture references might have found their way in, Angst, Crack, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Love Confessions, M/M, Meta, Retcon, S4 fix-it, This isn't particularly kind to series 4, Very silly premise, post-S3, post-tab, with some potentially creepy implications
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 17:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9452738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderTabbyCat/pseuds/CommanderTabbyCat
Summary: John's a storyteller. He knows when he's in one.Or at least, he figures it out eventually.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This work is somewhat inspired by Jasper Fforde's Thursday Next series. Whilst it couldn't really be called a crossover or an AU, I'd feel a bit remiss if I didn't give it some credit. Also, spot the gratuitous Rick and Morty reference. 
> 
> With thanks and a virtual bunch of flowers to my beta reader Iamjohnlocked4life :)

Sherlock’s in the kitchen, experimentally prodding the carcass of some kind of dead animal and muttering to himself when John walks in and asks the question. 

It’s been a week since the plane turned around, and Sherlock’s still waiting for the verdict on Magnussen. Not that, he supposes, any of it really matters now. Not in the grand scheme of things. 

The question is “When, exactly, were you going to tell me?” 

A cold feeling settles through Sherlock’s body. Somehow, instinctively, he knows what John means. 

He’s worked it out, then. Clever John. It’s Sherlock’s understanding that people don’t, usually, perhaps for reasons of preservation. God only knows what havoc would occur if more people worked it out. Although he’s certainly not the first.  


Sherlock walks over to the sink to wash his hands, avoiding John’s gaze for the moment. He considers playing dumb, letting John explain it all properly before confirming the facts. But what would be the point? 

Instead, he turns to face John. “I didn’t know myself, until quite recently.”  


“What tipped you off?”  


Sherlock waves a hand. “Oh, this and that. Little details. Everything’s very _pretty_ here, have you noticed?”  


“I have. I didn’t think you would have.”  


Sherlock shrugs again.  


“So,” John says, a little tremulously, “It’s really true then. We’re… we’re not real.”

Although really, John discovers, he honestly doesn’t need the extra confirmation. It’s something he finds himself surprisingly willing to accept. It’s like waking from a dream, and processing all the little details that didn’t make sense. 

And to his surprise, again like waking up, it’s something that he rather stoically accepts, instead of the existential crisis that one might expect to occur. He supposes it’s a form of self-preservation.

He still _feels_ real. When he looks at his hands they’re as solid as ever, not fading away or dissolving into text or anything. He finds himself disinclined to consider the philosophical ramifications of it all too closely yet; he supposes he’s real within the context of… well, whatever _this_ is. 

Sherlock eyes him cautiously. “Apparently not.”  


“What are we from, then, a book?”  


Sherlock shakes his head. “Given the level of visual detail, film or television is more likely. Given the way time passes around here — have you noticed that too, by the way? — I’m inclined to go with television. Do you remember, John, when we first met Moriarty in person, at the poolside?”  


John grimaces. “Of course.”  


“Well, I didn’t think much of it at first, which…” a nonplussed look ripples over his features for a moment, “Doesn’t seem like me. I suppose I wasn’t in the best emotional state, at the time. But, in any case, something odd stood out. When you walked out of that side door, you were visibly younger than you were when we walked out of that building. It was almost as if… I don’t know… you’d aged two years or so in the half hour we were there.”  


John bristles a little at that. “Now I come to think of it, _you’d_ put on weight. I thought it was a trick of the light.”  


“Both things are accounted for by the possibility that, well, what just happened was the break between series. It’s entirely possible that what we thought was a few minutes lasted… oh, up to two years.”  


John frowns. “And all that was resolved with a phone call? Must have been a bit of a disappointment.”  


“Not for me to judge, really. I don’t work in TV.”  


“Although, in a way, you do,” John points out.  


“Ha. Yes.”  


“Do you know what tipped me off?”  


“What?”  


“I was going to forgive Mary, for what she did to you. Just like that. And I… no. I can’t, I wouldn’t do that.” He almost laughs. “For god’s sake, I once shot a man through a window because I _suspected_ you might be in danger. She almost kills you, and it’s water under the bridge? After I’ve just got you back, too? No.”  


Sherlock’s face betrays no emotion. “I see.”  


“Besides, it’s fairly blatantly obvious that I’m in love with you.”

Sherlock looks up sharply. There’s a ringing silence in the room.  


“Well,” John stutters, a little wrong-footed, “Well, at least I thought it was obvious. I- I mean.”  


“I didn’t know,” Sherlock says quietly.  


“I thought you did. I thought you were giving me, you know, a soft rejection. By not saying anything.”  


Sherlock shakes his head, looking stricken.  


“Right.” John breathes in deeply. “Does this change anything?”  


Sherlock remains silent.  


“Do we… will we get to be together?”

John’s heart crumples at the sorrowful look on Sherlock’s face.  


“I’m sorry, John. I don’t think we can.”  


“Why not?” John demands. “Why _not?_ We know what’s going on now. We’re not even _real_ , for god’s sake, why can’t we do what we like?”  


Sherlock is still shaking his head, looking miserable. “John. We’re still constrained by the rules of the narrative. Our will isn’t our own. We have some leeway, here, I think, since we’re not being observed by the viewers. But as soon as we’re back on screen, we have to do as we’re told. And, well. Relationships like ours, they tend to be confined to more _niche_ genres. Going by where the story appears to be going at the moment, I don’t think it’s going to happen for us. I’m sorry, John. I want it to. I swear to you, I want it just as much as you do.”  


John feels a huge lump rising in his throat. “That doesn’t make any _sense_ ,” he chokes out. 

He supposes it’s absurd, really, that this should cause him more distress than the revelation that neither he nor Sherlock, strictly speaking, even exists. But the thought makes no difference. The knowledge that he can never be with Sherlock in the way that he wants — the way they _both_ want — is crushing him. 

He hears Sherlock cross the room and feels one of his hands fall, tentatively, on John’s upper arm, the other resting on his back.  
It should be a comfort. But instead, the realisation that this is probably about as intimate as their touches will ever become only makes him sob harder. 

Sherlock waits patiently, stroking his back, for John to quiet a little. John feels, rather than hears, Sherlock’s inhalation before he speaks.  


“John. There’s a possibility — there’s something we can do. I didn’t want to mention it at first, because it’s… risky. But I think this may be the only possibility we have left. It would be remiss of me not to mention it.”  


John sniffs hard. “What?”  


“I’ve been thinking. Doing a little research. And I think it’s possible we might be able to leave.”  


“Leave?”  


“I’m reasonably sure it’s been done before. And, of course, characters have been known to show up in different franchises to their original works. Based on that, it’s entirely possible to transport ourselves to a different story.”  


“I thought you didn’t know anything about pop culture.”  


“Discovering I’m a character in it myself has rather altered my perspective on that. I’ve been reading up.”  


“Where are you suggesting we go?”  


“John, have you ever heard of fan fiction?”

John frowns. He has, but not in detail, and usually mentioned in a vaguely derisive way. “It’s… some sort of internet thing? After my time, really.”  


“The kind you’re thinking of, perhaps. Although as a concept one could argue it’s existed in one way or another since, oh, classical periods, at least. Quality is a mixed bag, certainly, but some of it’s… actually very good. I should think we’d be comfortable enough in one of the better quality works.”  


John is taking some time to digest this when Sherlock adds, “It’s also my understanding that characters get to have a lot more sex.”  


John raises an eyebrow. “Really.”

Sherlock shifts a little awkwardly. “Just trying to inject some levity. But yes. In rather more explicit detail, is my understanding.”  
Detail. John likes the sound of that. He had wondered why he could never seem to remember anything he’d done with Mary in much detail. 

“So what exactly are you suggesting?”  


“I propose we find a promising writer, and take up residence in one of their new works. Keep it within this time period, I’m not particularly interested in residing in eighteenth century Britain, or some sort of undead apocalypse. We can find somewhere that resembles the world we’re living in now, for all intents and purposes, with a key difference.” He swallows. “We could be together.”

John hesitates. It’s a tempting thought, and he’s willing to take a considerable amount of risks for the sake of them being able to finally act on their feelings. But… “What about the show we’re in now? What’ll happen to that if we leave?”  


Sherlock sucks in his breath. “There are, I think, two possibilities.”  


“Go on?”  


“Either the show will stop altogether. There’ll be some real world explanation for it, no doubt; people will just claim it got cancelled.”  


“Are you trying to tell me that the reason some shows suddenly end between series is because the characters got fed up and jumped ship?”  


“Anything’s possible, John, but bear with me here. I only found out I wasn’t real myself a short time ago.”  


“Sorry, go on. What’s the other possibility?”  


“That the narrative will… well, generate new versions of us. Possibly slightly different versions, although they’ll look and sound like us. Characters whose motivations will be more consistent with whatever we’re supposed to be doing next in this story.”  


John frowns. “Won’t that look bad? Inconsistent? People would notice that. I mean, me letting Mary off the hook was bad enough. Who knows what whoever’s writing this is going to get us to do next?”  


“I know,” Sherlock sighs. “But that’s a risk that we would have to take. And to hell with it all, John, I _love_ you. I _ache_ for you. If I’m weighing up the possibility of being with you versus ruining whatever story we’re in at the moment, I’ll choose you. I’ll always, always choose you.”

John nods, slowly. He can’t argue with that. 

“Besides, I’m not convinced about where it’s going in any case. I mean, flatlining and coming back? “Surgery”? Surely a few people are bound to be skeptical about that alone. And if we aren’t going to be together, how good could the ending possibly be, in any case? It would barely make sense. This is a sinking ship, John. I propose we jump while we still can.”  


“But is there really nothing we could do to change this story? Nothing at all? We could at least try…”  


“I _did_ try, John.”  


“What? When?”  


“Remember what I said to you before I got on the plane?”  


John sucks in a breath. “ ‘Sherlock is actually a girl’s name?’ “  


“Yes, that. What was that? Did it look like that was what I was going to say? Did it sound like it? It makes no sense, John.”  


“I thought you were just joking, trying to lighten the mood… are you telling me you wanted to say something else?”  


“Of course. John, you _know_ what I wanted to tell you. I know you could see it, from the way you were looking at me. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell you. The story wouldn’t let me; it’s the only way I can explain it. That was when I knew for sure, not just that I wasn’t real, but that I wasn’t in control of my own destiny. I tried _so hard_ , John. I wanted so badly to tell you. But I couldn’t. I don’t think we can change things, it’s too embedded. Our only choice is to get out.”

John shudders. Suddenly there’s no doubt in his mind that he wants to get out of here, even if it just means putting himself in the trust of another creator. At least there’s some element of choice, there. 

“But what about… well, everyone else? Everyone we know. We’ll be replacing ourselves with copies and they’ll never know.”  


This thought is making John falter. He not particularly fussed about Mary, and he’s comforted at least by the idea that his child will have a dad, even if it isn’t him. But the others… the people who would miss them if they knew, but would have no idea they were gone. What about those people? Even in Mary’s case, loath as he is to admit it, the ethics of leaving her with a duplicate version of himself without her knowledge are dubious at best.  


“But they _will_ be us, effectively.”  


“You know what I mean.”  


“There, I’ll concede, you have a point.” Sherlock sighs heavily. “I don’t know, John. Perhaps they have the right to know too, to make their own decisions. It would come as a bit of a shock to them, but… well, do you remember how readily you accepted it, when you’d got used to the idea?”  


“I suppose. Are you suggesting we round up all our friends and families in the living room and explain that we’re all fictional characters?”  


“Would certainly be interesting, as a possibility.”  


“Maybe some of them will decide to find a new story, too.”  


“Maybe.”  


“But we can think about the finer details later. What do you think of the plan?” 

John swallows hard, and nods. “Yes. If that’s what it takes, then yes. I’m willing to do that.”  


He’s still a little unsure of the implications, but he’s coming increasingly to the realisation that he doesn’t want to — he can’t — be here any more. Going through the motions of a plot he doesn’t want to take part in any more, knowing that the outcome he desires will always be beyond him. He’d rather take his chances once and for all, than resign himself to that fate. 

Sherlock looks at him then, adoringly, the worry that had previously crossed his brow smoothing out. “I was rather hoping you’d say that.”  
John lays a hand on his shoulder, attempts to lean in.  


“Wait.” Sherlock, visibly reluctant, holds him back with one hand. “We can’t here, not yet. When we’ve left, John. I’ll kiss you then. I’ll kiss you as many times as you want. And hopefully we’ll be able to… well, do other things, too.”  


John smiles at the coyness. “In detail?”  


“Oh, a _lot_ of detail.”  


John sighs and squares his shoulders, resolute.  


“Then let’s go.”


End file.
